Connections

This dance is really no longer appropriate. This is a PSA.

By Paget Pizitz

After a recent night on the town with Birmingham’s very own, “Irish Bob”, I was left with no choice but to burrow into my couch for the better part of a beautiful sunny Sunday (Jägerbomb shots, incapacitated for 10 hours, if you must know). I spent my day indulging in snacks, talking to my cat in a Russian accent and watching a six hour marathon of “Millionaire Matchmaker.” The things I discovered this day were important and I need to share them with you. First, I have to stop doing the Cabbage Patch dance in public. It isn’t funny. The only person who ever laughs is my boyfriend, and I know he just does it because he feels sorry for me. Second, it is always a bad decision to eat three hot dogs outside Nana Funks at 4 am. Third, my cat isn’t Russian, therefore doesn’t appreciate my attempts at an accent. And last, Patti Stanger may have been a successful matchmaker but she sold out to Bravo for ratings and not only gives horrible advice, she gives the profession a terrible reputation.

I watched her tell a handful of women she couldn’t do anything for them due to their age (41), their weight (a size 8 ) and in one particularity infuriating instance, because of her successful and intimidating career. Out on a limb, I’m going to assume you have not read Stanger’s book. Well, lucky for you, I have. My face actually caught on fire when I read the chapter ‘negotiating the ring’ and the section dedicated to ‘negotiating monogamy.’ When I’m New York, I like to negotiate (barter goods and services, if you will) the price of a handbag. When I’m in a relationship, I don’t think I want to negotiate anything at all.

I can only imagine the look on Carter’s face when I say, “If you don’t cheat on me, I’ll do a Turtle Super Hard Shell Paste Wax on your car twice a week.” The crux of this book comes when Stanger advises after nine months to a year of dating, it’s do-or-die time, go in for the kill. Not every woman has her sights set on the ring. It kills my soul when anyone says “if it’s marriage you’re after” as though all women are like 1,500 pound Cape Buffaloes, stampeding head on towards their prey. Someone said to me the other day, “He’s successful, good looking and you’re already thirty two. Get that ring girl.” Is that all women really want? To find a husband, negotiate a ring and lock it down? I vacillated between two reactions to her absurd statement. One was to say, thank you and politely walk away. I choose the other one. Channeling my best Julia Roberts, I looked her right in her botoxed eye and said, “Oh, I’m not trying to land him, I’m just using him for sex”